


journeys end

by gothyringwald



Series: harringrove holidays [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Spooky, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: When Billy convinces Steve to spend Halloween at the Vance house—an abandoned house on the outskirts of Hawkins rumoured to be haunted—they discover that the Upside Down doesn’t have the monopoly on otherworldly.





	journeys end

**Author's Note:**

> This is vaguely inspired by _The Haunting of Hill House_ by Shirley Jackson, which reignited my desire for a fic of the four older teens getting stuck in a creepy/haunted house when I read it earlier this year. But it's not an actual AU of it and it's certainly not as layered/psychologically complex and um...well, let's just say: I'm sorry Ms Jackson (hooo!) 
> 
> ...and I'm also sorry for that joke but I just had to do it!
> 
> (As an aside, I've not yet watched the recent show inspired by the book—I may be too much of a scaredy cat for it judging by others' reviews and how I spooked myself writing this fic haha—but I love the 1963 adaptation)
> 
> For anyone who likes listening to music while reading, [here's the playlist I listened to while writing](https://open.spotify.com/user/andibgoode/playlist/4chB4OMTth2JdfpCKmhe9O?si=n5YgqzLaTWii_MavGbklCw)
> 
> Thanks to [Jackie](http://twobrokenwyngs.tumblr.com/) for looking this over for me! :)
> 
> Anyway, spooky isn’t really my wheelhouse so this was a challenge! But hopefully it paid off.
> 
> Oh, and the sex is pretty mild which is why nothing specific is tagged.
> 
> __[Moodboard](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/179533649820/journeys-end-aka-the-one-with-the-haunted)  
> __[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/andibgoode/playlist/4chB4OMTth2JdfpCKmhe9O?si=n5YgqzLaTWii_MavGbklCw)

_"What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be_  
_alive. Something dead that doesn't know it's dead._  
“Landscape with Fruit Rot and Millipede” by Richard Siken

'What are you doing for Halloween?' Billy asks, as he sits across from Steve at the diner. He salts his fries, dunks a handful in some ketchup, and shoves them in his mouth. 

'Thought we were going to Tracy's party,' Steve says, with a small frown. 

Billy wipes his hands on his jeans. 'I have a better idea.' He digs out a newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket. The edges are jagged where he'd torn it out of the paper, and it's crinkled from being in his jacket, but it's still readable. He slams it on the table and slides it across to Steve. 

Steve takes one look at the paper and rolls his eyes. 'This is for kids,' he says and Billy feels his face heat. 

'What's for kids?' Wheeler asks, sliding into the booth next to Billy, uninvited. Billy hadn't noticed her come over. 

Byers had come in with her and hovers by the table for a moment before he sits next to Steve. 

'The Vance house,' Steve says. 'Billy wants to go there for Halloween.' 

'I've never been,' Wheeler says, eating one of Billy's fries. Billy pulls his plate away, but Wheeler reaches over and takes another one, smiling. 

'Me either,' Byers says, shoulders hunched. 

'Apparently we're too old now,' Billy says, glaring at Steve. 

Steve shrugs and Billy kicks his foot under the table. 

'Didn't you go once?' Wheeler asks Steve. It rankles that she knows that and Billy doesn't. 

'Tommy and I did,' Steve admits. 'We got to the gate and Tommy refused to go any further. I went up the drive a bit but I didn't go in the house.' He drinks some of his soda and then adds, 'I told Tommy I did, though.' 

'Why don't we go for real, then?' Billy asks, even though he still feels the burn of embarrassment from Steve's reaction. He wants to go. And he wants Steve to come with him. 

'I've always wanted to go,' Wheeler says, which both surprises and impresses Billy. Until he realises she has taken his question to mean he's inviting everyone, when all he wanted was to get Steve alone. Get drunk, tell dumb ghost stories and maybe finally make a move on him. 

'I'm in,' Byers says. 'Beats Tracy's party, right?' 

Steve bites his lip, tapping his fingers on the table. 'Yeah, I'm in, too,' he says with a smile and Billy's stomach swoops. 

__

Thunder rumbles in the distance as Steve turns the BMW onto the dirt road that leads up to the Vance house. Billy glares out the passenger window, still annoyed that Steve had insisted on bringing his car and driving if he was going to spend his Halloween out here.

Wind rattles the spindly trees that pass by and angry dark clouds hang heavy overhead. Billy snorts at how cliched it all is. A dark and stormy night for their trip to the haunted house. Well, a dark and stormy day at least.

'Did you know, the house was built in 1894 by Theodore Vance for his wife but she died in childbirth without ever seeing it. He lived here alone with his daughter,' Wheeler says from the backseat. 'They became more and more reclusive and no one really knows how or when they died.'

'But most people say Vance killed his daughter, then killed himself,' Byers adds. 'Went mad with grief or something.'

Billy grits his teeth. He'd tried to convince Steve to leave Wheeler and Byers behind, make it just the two of them, but Steve had a 'the more the merrier' attitude and had worn Billy down.

The car comes to a halt outside a pair of looming wrought-iron gates. The radio hisses static.

'Are the gates locked?' Byers asks, leaning forward.

'There's a chain around them,' Steve says.

Billy gets out of the car and strides over to the gates. A strange thrill shoots through him as he looks up along the winding drive to the house in the distance. It's shadowed in the gloomy weather, some of the windows boarded up, masonry crumbling. The perfect picture of a haunted house.

He looks back to the gate. There's a padlock but it breaks easily, the metal rusted through, and Billy un-loops the chain and pushes. It's stuck. 'Come help me with this,' he yells out, waving toward the car.

The car doors open and close and the others come over. Steve helps Billy push one gate open, as Wheeler and Byers open the other, the hinges creaking and groaning.

Billy is sweaty and his hands ache from the cold when he gets back in the car, but it helps him ignore the strange feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as the house looms closer and closer.

'It's bigger than I imagined it would be,' Wheeler says craning her neck to peer out the window.

Steve parks the car at the top of the drive. 'It doesn't look as big as I remember,' he says, getting out of the car, 'but I guess I was smaller.'

Wheeler smiles and Byers says, 'Looks less rundown than I thought it would be,' as they make their way to the door, bags of food and booze and flashlights in hand. Gravel crunches under their feet and a chill wind whistles past.

Billy looks up at the house. It's just like he'd imagined.

__

'This place gives me the heebie jeebies,' Billy says. His flashlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating the entrance hall, his duffel at his feet. It's the middle of the day but the house seems completely sealed off from any light, like it bounces right off of it or something.

'Scared, Hargrove?' Steve says, his own flashlight shining down on Billy from the staircase landing. 'This was your idea, you know.'

Billy snorts. 'Not scared. This place is just weird is all.' He turns on the spot, looking over a marble bust, a vase of wax flowers on a lacquered side table, and a framed mirror hanging above them. The mirror is cracked and so Billy's reflection—dark behind the bright point of his flashlight—is fractured. 

'It is weird,' Wheeler says from across the hall. She rubs her arm, shivering, sleeves wilting over her wrists. 'I don't like it.'

'Do you think it could be Upside Down weird?' Byers asks. 'Or just weird weird?'

'I don't know. I guess we'll find out.'

'We should look around,' Byers says and Billy rolls his eyes. Trust them to turn this into a field trip.

'OK, yeah,' Billy says, an idea forming. 'You and Wheeler look around down here. Me and Harrington will check upstairs,' he says, heading toward Steve.

'You want to split up?' Wheeler says.

'We're in pairs. It's the middle of the day. We'll be fine,' Billy says. He bounds up to the landing and grabs Steve's wrist, tugging him further up the stairs. 'Come on, pretty boy,' he says. 'Let's go find some ghosts.'

__

'I don't know what we're looking around for,' Billy says, flopping down onto a four poster bed in the second bedroom they've looked in. Dust billows up around him. He rubs his nose. 'This isn't an episode of Scooby-Doo. We're just meant to be getting drunk and telling ghost stories.'

Steve is looking through an armoire, back to Billy. 'Then why did you suggest splitting up to cover more ground?'

'Maybe I'm just trying to get you alone,' Billy says, waggling his brows when Steve turns around. He always says shit like this, in just the right tone of voice so Steve won't guess he's being serious.

Steve rolls his eyes and turns back to the armoire. Billy huffs. He doesn't like when Steve ignores him. It's almost as dark in the room as everywhere else, but aside from the bright white beams of their flashlights, a little light filters in through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains. It catches on Steve's hair, the slope of his jaw as he turns. 

'If this were Scooby-Doo, Byers would be that stoner one,' Billy says, poking his finger through a hole in the patchwork quilt. 'And Wheeler would be the nerdy chick.' He pulls at the hole, feeling the fabric snag against his finger. 'Guess that leaves the square and the redhead for us.' Billy wrinkles his nose—he should've said he was Shaggy—and glances up at Steve. The hinge of his jaw ticks, like maybe he's trying not to smile, but he doesn't say anything. Billy pulls his finger, rending a large hole in the fabric. 'You can be Daphne,' he says. 

Steve snorts and says, 'Sure thing, Fred,' before falling silent again. Minutes pass and Billy gets bored with Steve ignoring him, so he wanders off, down the hall with its peeling floral wallpaper, into another room. It's similar to the previous one, all heavy brocade and gilded furniture. It's kind of ugly.

There's a large oak closet in the corner and Billy gets an idea. The floor creaks somewhere outside and he pauses, listening, but it's silent now. He gets inside the closet and closes the door, waiting. It smells like tobacco and he remembers how his grandma used to store her fur coat with the ends of cigars to ward off moths. He shudders. He'd always hated that coat.

It's not long before he hears Steve call out to him from the other room, his voice distant and muted. Footsteps sound out in the hall and then Billy hears, 'Billy? Where are you?'

Billy stays quiet. The footsteps move into the room, then stop, Billy thinks near the bed. They start again, hesitant now.

'Billy, this isn't funny,' Steve says. Billy can just imagine how he's standing, hands on his hips, brow furrowed. Mouth a thin line of worry and pissed off. Billy smiles. 

When Steve sounds close enough, Billy bursts out of the closet yelling, 'Boo!' with the flashlight shining under his chin.

Steve jumps about a mile in the air and Billy cackles. 'Oh my god, you asshole,' Steve says. He shoves at Billy.

'I got you,' Billy says, grinning. He waves his flashlight in Steve's face. His cheeks are flushed.

'Yeah, you got me,' Steve says, sounding unimpressed.

Billy slings an arm around Steve's shoulder, leans in close and says, 'Don't worry, if there are any real ghosts, I'll protect you.'

Steve rolls his eyes but he doesn't shake Billy off. 'Gee, thanks. My hero.'

Billy winks. He's about to make a lewd remark about how Steve can repay him when there's a sound from somewhere outside the room. If Billy didn't know better, he'd say it was a giggle.

'What was that?' Steve says, stepping toward the door. Billy's arm falls from his shoulder.

Billy shrugs but his heart skips and his palms tingle. 'Probably just a bird or something.'

'It didn't sound like a bird.' Steve turns to Billy. He's biting his lip. 'Maybe we should check it out.'

Billy doesn't scare easily but something in him is screaming, 'No way'. He doesn't want to lose face in front of Steve though, so he says, 'Yeah,' and follows Steve out of the room.

The hallway is empty, but there's another set of stairs that Billy assumes leads to an attic. He and Steve look at each other and a silent agreement passes between them. Billy moves forward, with Steve following close behind.

__

There's a stench in the attic that makes Billy gag. It's ripe and fleshy and he has to cover his mouth and nose, staggering back and right into Steve.

'What's wrong?' Steve asks, one hand on Billy's shoulder, steadying him.

'Can't you smell that?' Billy asks, voice muffled by his hand. 

'It's a little dusty, I guess,' Steve says, moving past Billy to get further into the attic.

'What?' Billy's hand falls to his side. The scent is gone. 'I thought I could smell…'

Steve turns to him. 'Hm?'

Billy shakes his head. 'Nothing. Guess I imagined it,' he says, but he can still taste it at the back of his throat. Pulpy and wrong.

'Let's look around,' Steve says and Billy nods.

He's too distracted by the phantom smell and the strange feeling forming within him to say anything about how nerdy Steve is being, treating this like an investigation. And there's a tugging in Billy's stomach, besides, like a hook caught and pulling him, urging him to look. To find. He takes a deep breath, and turns on the spot.

The attic is mostly empty. There's a painting of the house, in a gilded frame, thick with dust. Silvery cobwebs in the sloping rafters, motes of dust in the flashlight beams as they swing around the room. A heavy armoire that seems to be home to a family of rats. And a trunk. 

'It's locked,' Billy says, and is about to use the flashlight to try to break the lock off when Steve says, 'Take this,' handing Billy his own flashlight and kneeling in front of the trunk.

He takes a pocket knife out from his jeans and fiddles with the lock until it pops open.

'I didn't know you could pick locks,' Billy says, more than a little impressed.

'I'm full of surprises,' Steve says, with a wink. His face is pale in the bright beam of the flashlight and his eyes shine. Billy wants to kiss him.

Steve stares up at him a moment too long so Billy clears his throat and shines the flashlight onto the trunk. 'Let's see what's in there,' he says and kneels beside Steve.

The trunk opens with a loud creak, the scent of dust and decay escaping from it. It doesn't seem like it's been opened in decades, at least.

'Oh. Books,' Steve says, sounding disappointed, fingers trailing over the piles of books that fill the trunk.

Billy picks one up—it's bound in leather, cracking, the pages yellowed—and opens it. It's all handwritten. 'Looks like journals,' he says. The handwriting is scrawling and cramped but he can make it out well enough.

Steve leans over his shoulder to look at the pages as Billy turns. His breath whooshes over Billy's neck and Billy is glad for the solid warmth of him at his back as he reads. They're all written by a young girl—Julia Vance, the inscription says—detailing her day to day life. Mostly about her mistreatment at the hands of her father, a dark tyrannical figure. The words clang in Billy's head but he keeps reading. This guy, this Theodore Vance, was an asshole.

The word 'home' catches Billy's eye as he scans one page and he goes back to read it over. _'There is an embroidery hanging in what would have been mother's room,'_ the spindly handwriting reads, _'of a small house with the words 'Home, sweet home!' above it. I cannot think of this house as sweet. Therefore, I wonder, is it truly my home? Do I have a home anywhere?'_ It hits Billy like a punch to the gut. He doesn't want to think why.

'Maybe we should take these down to Nancy and Jonathan,' Steve says, voice soft.

Billy nods. He stands and brushes his legs down. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees movement in the doorway. A figure. He rushes over but when he gets there, the stairwell is empty. A chill runs through him.

'Gonna help me with these?' Steve says.

Billy turns back to him. He nods, distracted, and says, 'Yeah.'

__

'I guess the rumours are true,' Wheeler says with a shudder, running her finger along the page of the journal she holds. The trunk sits open by her feet, Byers' flashlight shining down on it; Billy and Steve had dragged it down to the entrance hall where they found Wheeler and Byers waiting. They hadn't found anything interesting themselves but were intrigued by the journals.

'They could be fake,' Steve says, biting his lip. He glances at Billy.

'They look real,' Byers says.

Billy knows they're real. It's not just that he can easily believe what's written in them—how easily people can enact cruelty on each other, on their children—but in his gut he knows. 'They're real,' he says, picking up another journal from the pile.

'So this guy locked his kid up in the attic?' Byers says.

'Seems like it,' Wheeler says. 'Just when she was bad apparently.'

'No one's that bad,' Billy snaps.

'I didn't mean I agreed,' Wheeler says, steel in her eyes.

Billy shrugs and bites his thumbnail. Steve curls a hand around his elbow. His hand is warm and it makes Billy realise he's cold. He drops his head and sucks in a breath.

'What happened to her?' Byers asks.

Wheeler shakes her head, ponytail bouncing. 'The journals stop when she was sixteen.'

An uneasy silence settles over them; Billy can hear each and every one of his breaths, of Steve's breaths, a buzzing in his brain that gets louder and louder. He presses the heel of his palm to his temple.

Steve turns a concerned look on him but Billy waves him off. He stays close by Steve's side, though.

Finally, Steve says, 'The rumours are her dad killed her and buried her in the basement, right?'

'I heard the woods out back,' Byers says.

'Whatever the rumours, if these are real, she didn't have a happy life,' Wheeler says. 'Listen to this: “Today a parson visited the house. I watched him arrive and leave from the attic; I have been locked in again for breaking one of mother's dishes. He is the first person I have seen aside from father in months.”'

Steve's hand slides down Billy's forearm, fingers catching on his as he moves back over to take the journal from Wheeler. 'She seems really lonely,' Steve says. He catches Billy's eye, something unfathomable in his gaze. 

'Yeah,' Billy says, 'she does.'

'Do you think it's her haunting this place?' Byers says. He looks around like a ghost might appear at any second.

'If there _are_ ghosts,' Wheeler says.

'Of course there are ghosts,' Billy says, though he's not sure if he means spirits or something else.

Steve gives him a sad smile and suddenly the house seems suffocating. 

Billy clears his throat. 'I'm going outside. It's real stuffy in here.'

'I'll come with you,' Steve says and they both leave.

__

It's dark out, stars peeking through heavy grey clouds, their edges limned by the glimmer of a fat moon. Billy blinks up at the sky, stopped dead on the front porch.

'Harrington,' he says as Steve comes up beside him, 'how long have we been in the house?'

Steve looks at his watch and taps the face. 'I don't know. My watch stopped,' he says. 'That's weird.'

'So has mine,' Billy says, looking at his own watch with a frown.

'We can't have been in there long enough for it to be dark, though,' Steve says, a strained edge to his voice. He's warm beside Billy, his neck arched as he gazes up at the sky, lip caught between his teeth.

Billy's heart thuds. 'I guess we lost track of time.' He walks down the front porch steps, stopping by a heavy stoneware urn, the plant that once lived in it long dead.

'I guess,' Steve says, dubiously. He takes the cigarette Billy has just lit, so Billy lights himself another.

Smoke fills his lungs, warm and familiar, and nicotine buzzes in his veins. It settles a little of the uneasiness he's felt since they pulled up. 'Still game to spend the night?' he asks. Part of him hopes Steve will chicken out, but he doesn't think he will. Steve is so much braver than he is.

'Of course I am,' Steve says, the cherry of his cigarette bright in the night. He blows out a long plume of smoke. 'Are you?'

'Not calling me chicken, are you?'

Steve smirks. 'I wouldn't dare.' His smirk falls and he toes at the ground. 'Seriously, though, I wouldn't…it would be OK if you want to leave.'

'Why would I want to leave?'

Steve presses his lips together. 'Just…what it said in those journals. I thought it might…' he trails off and shrugs.

Billy takes one last drag of his cigarette and crushes it. He pokes a finger to Steve's chest. 'I'm not a wuss,' he says. 

Steve blinks. 'I didn't say you were.'

'Whatever.' Steve's concern sits heavily in Billy's stomach. He's not going to fall apart just because some chick had a shitty dad and wrote about it in her diary. 'I'm going back inside.'

__

'This doesn't make any sense,' Wheeler says. She shivers and Byers puts his arm around her shoulders.

Neither of them had believed it could be night already when Billy and Steve had told them. Billy doesn't blame them, not really, but it still rankles. 

So, now they are all standing on the porch, Billy wearing an 'I told you so' look as he stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the door. It's cold against his back, even though he's wearing layers of thermal and flannel and denim. 

'It's like Billy said when we were out here,' Steve says, arms hugged around his waist, 'we probably just lost track of time. It's so dark in there, it'd be easy. Right?'

'Yeah,' Byers says, frowning up at the sky.

Billy rolls his eyes even though it was his own explanation. 'Guess there's only one thing for it,' he says, pushing off the door and sauntering over to stand by Steve.

'What?' Steve asks.

Billy slings an arm around his shoulder. 'Get shit faced and tell ghost stories.'

Wheeler rolls her eyes and Byers doesn't look impressed but Steve smiles and says, 'I've got stories that'll make you wet your pants.'

Billy grins, and says, 'Bring it on, pretty boy.'

__

They find a parlour that looks comfortable enough, and settle in, an oil lamp Wheeler and Byers had found in the basement casting a murky glow over the room. It skims the brass clock on the mantel, a Japanese vase, paintings of grim-faced people and sweeping landscapes. There are two alcoves either side of the fireplace, one home to an upright piano, the other a writing desk—both covered in tchotchkes—lacquered wood gleaming in the dim light. It all looks expensive, and Billy thinks about swiping a candlestick or two before they leave. Not like anyone will miss them.

He sits by Steve on the floor, leaning against a velvet _chaise longue_ , Wheeler and Byers opposite them, on a blanket that Wheeler had brought. 

They have beer—it's warm but it's beer—and Billy has his hip flask of whisky for a chaser. He props his arm on the _chaise longue_ , close enough to the edge so that, when Steve leans back, his hair tickles Billy's arm.

'Who's going first?' Steve asks. His legs are stretched out on the threadbare Afghan rug, bottle of beer in one hand, other arm folded around his middle.

'Billy should,' Wheeler says, feet tucked under her, 'this was his idea after all.'

Billy drinks some of his beer, relishing the bitter taste. 'Nah, we'd better save mine. We should start with something tamer. Why don't you give it a go?' he says, waving his hand at Byers.

Byers rolls his eyes. Billy knows it was a dumb thing to say. He may have seen some weird shit since he moved to Hawkins—he thought moving to the Midwest was bad enough let alone to a town with fucking monsters—but nothing like the other three have. 

'I don't think you could handle my stories,' Byers says.

Steve snorts and Wheeler rolls her eyes. 'I'll go first,' she says. 

She tells them a story about a travelling salesman who saw a young woman alone at an intersection, late one night, and offers her a ride. 'The woman accepts,' Wheeler says, 'telling him she'd been abandoned by her date on prom night, and just wants to go home. It's a cold night and she's only wearing a prom dress so the man lends her his sweater and takes her home. As he's driving away he realises she still has his sweater. He returns to the house, goes up to the door and rings the bell. The girl's mother answers, so the man explains what happened.' 

Wheeler pauses and the lamp flickers, glinting in her eyes. It feels like everyone's holding their breath; despite himself, Billy finds that he's leaned forward, hanging on each of Wheeler's words.

'The girl's mother goes pale and tells the man her daughter died exactly one year ago, on the night of her senior prom. The man doesn't understand, tries to explain what had happened, but the woman angrily tells him if he doesn't believe her, her daughter is buried in the local cemetery. He gets back in his car and drives there. When he finds the girl's grave he sees his sweater lying neatly folded atop it.'

'That's a good one, Nance,' Steve says with a shiver. Wheeler smiles at him and Billy's eyes narrow.

'It was OK,' Billy says—Wheeler rolls her eyes—then gestures to Byers with his bottle of beer. 'Your turn.'

Byers sighs and half-heartedly tells a story about honeymooners who find a corpse under their motel bed. Billy can tell he thinks this whole thing is dumb but he he spins a good yarn, all the same. When it's Steve's turn he tells the story of the girl who found her boyfriend hanging from a tree above the car, the tips of his toes scrape-scrape-scraping the car roof.

The light catches on Steve's hair, shadows playing over his features as he talks. His eyes shine and he leans forward as he becomes more rapt in telling the story. Billy leans in, too, closer to Steve with each word. He's not scared—he's heard this one before, a million times—and it's not even that Steve is a very good storyteller. But it's something about the cadence of his voice, and the flickering shadows, the scent of his hairspray and cologne, that draws Billy in. His arm slides from the couch to rest on the floor by Steve's hip.

When Steve finishes, he turns to Billy. Their faces are so close. Steve blinks. 'Um.'

Billy wants to brush Steve's hair out of his face but then Wheeler clears her throat and Steve jumps. 

'It's your turn,' Wheeler says to Billy. There's something shrewd in her gaze as it flicks between Steve and Billy that Billy doesn't like.

'Right,' Billy says, licking his lips. He knows exactly which story he wants tell but before he can say anything the lamp sputters and goes out, leaving the room cloaked in darkness.

'What was that?' Steve says.

'It was just a draught,' Billy says. His palms feel damp. He wipes them against his jeans.

'This house is sealed tight,' Byers says, 'there are no draughts.'

'Maybe it ran out of oil,' Steve says, sounding a little breathless.

'It was full,' Wheeler says.

Billy can hear someone breathing heavily. He thought it was himself for a moment but he can feel breath whispering over his neck. It makes his hair stand on end. It must be Steve. He fumbles for his flashlight and flicks it on. Steve is sitting at least a foot away. Billy's stomach drops.

'Can you hear that?' Billy says.

Steve frowns. 'Hear what?'

Billy shakes his head. 'Nothing,' he says, but the phantom breath is still raising his hair. It's coming from behind him, like someone is leaning over his shoulder, but he doesn't want to turn around. He does, though, slowly, letting the beam of the flashlight caress the darkness as he turns. His heart pounds.

There's nothing behind him. Billy sighs. The breath is gone but it still feels like there's something more than just the four of them in the room.

'Maybe we should go to bed,' Byers says. He looks paler than usual, brows drawn together.

'Yeah,' Steve says. 'I'm pretty beat.' He seems eager to get out of the parlour.

There's a buzzing in Billy's ears like hundreds of flies and he nods, mutely.

'Did any of the rooms look like you could sleep in them?' Wheeler asks, standing. She stretches a hand out to help Byers to his feet, staying close by him.

'Yeah, only two, actually,' Steve says. 'They're next door to each other. I'll show you,' he says, and turns on his own flashlight, leading the way out of the room, with one last wary look over his shoulder.

The house is still as they make their way up to the second storey, no creaking floorboards, no draughts, no night noises. Steve walks ahead, then Wheeler and Byers holding hands, with Billy bringing up the rear. He still has goosebumps all over, has to resist the urge to spin around because it feels like something is behind him the whole way.

He rubs his free hand across his face. He's just seen _The Amityville Horror_ one too many times. He's got caught up in the whole thing. But, a small voice says, if monsters from another dimension are real, why not ghosts?

__

Billy wakes to a loud crash. He sits straight up, heart pounding. It takes him a moment to remember he's in a creepy old house on the outskirts of Hawkins and not in his own bed.

'What was that?' Steve's voice emerges from the darkness. Billy nearly jumps. He'd forgotten that the two habitable bedrooms each only had one bed, that he and Steve had to share.

Before Billy can answer there's another bang. And then another. And another. 

The sheets rustle and the mattress dips. A moment later light floods the room as Steve turns on his flashlight. He shines it at the door. 'You definitely hear that…right?' he asks, turning to Billy and blinding him in the process. 

'Gimme that.' Billy takes the flashlight from him. 'And yeah, I hear that. I ain't deaf.' 

'What _is_ it?' Steve is breathing hard.

Billy takes slow, even breaths. He sets the flashlight down so it casts light over the bed. 'Probably just Wheeler and Byers knocking boots.' He licks his lips.

'That loud? Seriously?'

Billy shrugs. 'It's always the quiet ones, you know?'

Steve huffs. 'You're ridiculous.' He shifts and Billy can feel his warmth near him, though they're not touching. 

The bangs come again, booming and shaking, but there is the sound of footsteps with them, now. It sounds like someone is running down the hall banging on the walls and doors. With a fucking anvil.

'Maybe they're playing a prank on us,' Billy says. His heart is beating as hard as the crashing.

'Nancy and Jonathan wouldn't do that,' Steve says and Billy knows he's right. There's another crash and Steve twitches. 'What do you think it is?' Steve shifts closer again, pressed against Billy's side.

Billy leans into him. 'You're the expert on things that go bump in the night,' he says, voice rough, 'what do you think?'

Steve looks at Billy, eyes wide. He shakes his head. Billy isn't sure if it means he doesn't know or doesn't want to say. Either way, it's hardly comforting.

'That's it,' Billy says, as the banging goes on. He gets out of bed and moves toward the door but Steve catches his wrist.

'What are you doing?' Steve hisses.

'I'm going to see what it is,' Billy says. 'Let me go, will you.'

Steve shakes his head. He shuffles forward, awkwardly because he's still holding Billy's wrist, and picks up the flashlight. 'You're not going alone.'

'Well, come on,' Billy says, as Steve stands. 

Steve has the flashlight in one hand, lets the hand around Billy's wrist slide down, fingers tickling his palm, until they're holding hands. Billy squeezes his hand tight.

They move forward slowly, the floorboards cold under Billy's bare feet. He's cold all over, a bone-deep chill that seeps further into him with every step. But he's sweating, too, damp under his arms, prickling along his neck. His hand is clammy in Steve's. The banging gets louder. It's louder than the Metallica concert Billy dragged Steve to last summer.

The doorknob starts rattling and they stop moving. 

'Fuck,' Billy says. He slips his hand from Steve's and reaches for the door.

'Billy, don't,' Steve says. 'Please.'

Billy turns to Steve. 'Don't you want to know what's going on?'

Steve presses his lips together, and then he finally nods. 'Yeah.'

'So, let's find out,' Billy says. As he curls his hand around the metal, the doorknob stops rattling and everything goes quiet. He sighs. Beside him, Steve slumps.

'Is it over?' Steve asks. And that's when it starts again. Impossibly louder. The doorknob rattling like it's going to fall out any moment. And the door bows in toward the room, like something is pressing on it. Desperate to get in.

Billy and Steve jerk back. Steve has one arm around Billy's waist, holding him tight, while Billy's arms hang limply at his sides. There is a hot feeling surging up in his stomach, niggling at the back of his mind. Urging him forward. He leaves Steve's embrace and steps forward again until he's pressed up against the door. He lays his palms on the wood, feels it pushing into him. 

'What are you doing?' Steve asks, pulling at Billy. 

Billy shakes Steve off and curls his hands into fists. He pounds on the door. 'Fuck off!' He pounds harder, his fists aching. They'll probably bruise. 'Fuck off! You're not coming in!' He pounds and pounds, with Steve trying to pull him away from the door—'Billy, come on, we don't know what's out there!'—until it finally stops.

There's a high pitched giggle and then the sound of footsteps running down the hall, toward the attic.

Billy sags against the door. 

'What the fuck were you doing?' Steve asks. He pulls on Billy's shoulder until Billy turns around.

Billy shakes his head. 'I don't know,' he says, 'but it worked, didn't it?'

Steve stares at him a moment, mouth hanging open, and then he drops the flashlight and pulls Billy toward him. Hugs him fiercely. Billy brings his arms up around Steve, fists his hands in his shirt. 

Billy wants to tell Steve he didn't want that thing coming in here, didn't want it to get Steve, or to get him. But he says, 'I'm really cold.'

'Me too,' Steve says, into Billy's neck, 'let's go back to bed.'

'OK,' Billy says but he doesn't move. He feels like jelly all over. 

'Billy?' Steve steps back, brow furrowed in concern, when Billy stays still.

Billy looks up at Steve. In that moment he is certain of two things: ghosts are real and he's going to kiss Steve Harrington. Finally. So he pulls Steve back toward him and kisses him. Hard. Steve hums against Billy's mouth, wraps his arms back around his waist. He opens his mouth and slides his tongue against Billy's.

Billy moans and fists his hands in Steve's hair.

'Fuck,' Steve stays, breath hot and wet against Billy's mouth, 'I've wanted to do that for so long.'

'Me too,' Billy says and kisses Steve again.

Maybe it's fucked up to do this after what just happened, when just moments ago he thought he was going to be murdered by a ghost. But he wants Steve too much and has done for too long and he finds that desire easily consumes fear. The only thing that would stop him would be if Steve didn't want this but he kisses back with as much heat as Billy does, and so Billy pushes Steve toward the bed.

The house is silent, now, too silent, and Billy's ears ring. He pushes away the memory of the otherworldly racket and listens to their stumbling footsteps, their harsh breaths, the slick sounds of their kissing. Concentrates on the feel of Steve's hands, his chest, his mouth. The backs of Billy's knees hit the edge of the bed and he pulls Steve down on top of him.

They'd been sleeping in their underwear and t-shirts so it doesn't take long to strip them off. Billy relishes the feel of Steve's skin against his, his weight pressing him down into the creaking mattress.

The flashlight they left by the door gutters, leaving the room in the consuming darkness. Billy wishes he could see Steve but he can feel him and that's enough, this time. If they make it out of this house, they're doing this again and again and again.

Steve slips his hands under Billy's shoulders; Billy grasps at Steve's hips, urging Steve to rock against him. 

'Are you OK?' Steve asks, even as he's kissing Billy's jaw, his neck.

'Yeah,' Billy breathes.

'Do you really want to do this? Now?' Steve thrusts down, moaning softly.

'Yeah,' Billy says, 'don't you want to?'

Steve doesn't answer, he just kisses Billy again, swallowing Billy's moans.

They move together in the dark and Billy forgets about ghosts and haunted houses with the feel of Steve's cock against his, Steve's mouth on him, his fingers sunk in Steve's hair. He comes with Steve's name on his tongue and Steve follows not long after.

__

The second time Billy wakes that night, it's slowly, pulled from a deep dreamless sleep. Someone is touching his face. Featherlight caresses, like the way his mother used to brush her fingers across his brow to soothe him when he had a bad fever. Or, sometimes, just because she loved him. It feels nice, though it tickles. It's kind of mushy of Steve, Billy thinks, to touch him like this. Normally, Billy would bat his hand away, but tonight he lets himself revel in Steve's touch under the guise of sleep.

'Billy,' Steve whispers. His voice sounds strange and distant but Billy supposes it's just the acoustics in the room or something. He drags his hand down Billy's cheek, along his neck.

The touch is warm and makes Billy feel safe. He lies still.

But then Steve says his name, again, louder this time and he can't really pretend he's asleep any longer. He opens his eyes, about to pretend he's just woken up, prepared to tell Steve he's being a sap, only to find there is nothing above him but seemingly endless dark. 

Billy rubs a hand across his forehead, heart starting to beat faster. Maybe Steve got bored. He turns his head slowly and can just make out Steve's form, the naked expanse of his back barely visible in the gloom. He's rolled onto his side, facing away from Billy. His shoulders rise and fall in the deep even rhythm of sleep. 

Billy swallows thickly. What the fuck? He couldn't fall back to sleep that quickly, could he?

He reaches out, grabs Steve's shoulder and shakes. 'Harrington,' Billy says, voice strangely even.

Steve grunts.

'Steve.' Billy shakes harder and Steve murmurs, rolling onto his back.

'What?' Steve says, his ankle brushing Billy's beneath the sheets.

Billy pushes himself up, so he's sitting against the headboard. 'Were you touching me?'

'Huh?'

'Were you just touching my face?'

Steve rubs his eyes. 'I was asleep. I don't think so.'

'OK,' Billy says. It's OK. It's fine. 

Steve sits up, too, the bed dipping and creaking beneath him. He leans closer to Billy. 'What's wrong?'

Billy's heart is thudding hard, his palms feel tingly, his underarms sweaty. There's a tight prickling feeling in his neck. He rubs at it. 'Nothing, just a bad dream.'

'What kind of dream?'

Billy chews on his thumbnail. If he tells Steve he'll make a big deal out of it. 'Just…someone touching my face. It was nothing.'

'Billy,' Steve says, and his voice is strangled. He places a hand on Billy's thigh and it's a testament to Billy's self control that he doesn't jump a mile in the air. 'Billy, that's not nothing. Not in this house.'

'It's fine,' Billy says, turning to Steve. His eyes have adjusted to the dark and he can make out Steve's face, the worried crease in his brow. He looks away, again, staring out into the darkness. 'It was only a dream,' Billy repeats but he can't believe himself. Who the fuck was touching him?

__

The morning breaks clear and bright but inside Vance house it is still dark. A little grey light filters through the curtains at the window, washing over Billy and Steve where they lie tangled together. Billy wakes first, eyes heavy and prickling, and slides out of bed, stretching. He keeps his back to the door as he dresses in his cold, rumpled clothes.

Steve stirs, yawning, scratching his stomach. 'How'd you end up sleeping?' he asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and picking up his shirt. He slips it on, then steps into his jeans.

Billy runs a hand through his hair and shrugs his jacket on. 'Just fine,' he lies. 'You?'

'Not great,' Steve says, pulling his head through his sweater. His hair sticks up and Billy wants to smooth it down. He doesn't.

'Wanna go downstairs?' Billy asks, biting his thumbnail.

Steve looks at him a moment before he says, 'Yeah,' and follows Billy from the room, staying close by Billy's side.

They don't talk about last night—the unnatural din, Billy's strange dream, the sex—but, as they walk down the stairs, Billy catches Steve's fingers in his, heart skipping. Steve looks over at Billy, smiling, and squeezes Billy's fingers. Their hands slide apart before they walk into the parlour where Wheeler and Byers are waiting.

The tasselled curtains are drawn tight but they've got the oil lamp working again, casting its dusty glow on the room in place of clear morning light.

'Good morning,' Wheeler says. Byers dips his head. They're sitting on a love-seat, knees touching, hands entwined. 

'Morning,' Steve says and Billy just grunts, then drops onto the _chaise longue_ , beside Steve.

'Sleep OK?' Wheeler asks.

Billy raises his brows. 'Are you kidding?'

Wheeler and Byers exchange confused frowns. 'What do you mean?' Byers asks.

'Didn't you hear all that banging last night?' Steve looks as confused as Billy feels. There's no way anyone could have slept through that racket.

'We didn't hear anything,' Byers says, shrugging apologetically.

'Well, we heard _something_ ,' Wheeler says, a sly smile twisting her lips. Byers is blushing, head ducked.

'What?' Steve asks, though Billy thinks he already knows. 

'Noises,' Wheeler says, biting her lip against a giggle, 'from your room.'

Steve's eyes widen and even Billy feels heat crawl up his neck. 'Oh,' Steve says, 'that was…um…'

Billy snorts. 'That was _us_ banging.' 

Steve groans. Across the room Byers's blush deepens but Wheeler's smile widens in a way that impresses Billy.

'Sorry,' Wheeler says, 'but you were kind of loud. If you were trying to be discreet, that is.'

'I guess we weren't thinking,' Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. He doesn't look upset at the revelation, though.

Billy lets his knee rest against Steve's. 'Well, before you two pervs were eavesdropping on us, Casper was doing its darnedest to keep us awake,' he says.

'How?' Wheeler asks, all serious again.

'Knocking on the doors, running down the hall,' Steve says. He shares a look with Billy. 'You seriously didn't hear anything?'

'No, it was quiet. Almost too quiet,' Byers says.

'I think we should go back to Hawkins,' Steve says. His fingers edge closer to Billy's where they rest on the scant inches of worn velvet separating them. 'I don't like this place.'

'C'mon, Harrington, not wimping out on me, are you?' Billy says before anyone else can agree with Steve.

Steve turns a searching look on him and says, 'No. I guess not.'

__

After they eat a breakfast of donuts and now cold coffee, they decide to look around the house some more. No splitting up this time, Steve says, but Billy can't stop thinking about the attic, doesn't want to wait for the others to finish looking through each and every room systematically. So, when they're talking about how weird it is that the dining room is all laid out, like it's ready for someone to be served their dinner, he slips away.

His footsteps are light but his boots are heavy and so it's strange that not one floorboard creaks beneath his feet. When he steps into the attic a chill runs through him. It's not warm in the house but this room is like a walk-in freezer.

Billy's flashlight flickers and goes out at the same moment the door slams shut. His heart jumps. 

'Real funny, Harrington,' he yells, voice strained. There's no answer. But he swears he can hear someone else breathing. Just like when they were in the parlour telling ghost stories. 

Something brushes past him and his grip loosens, flashlight clattering to the floor. It's all in his head. There's no one else in here.

He swallows thickly and walks forward, groping for the door. His footsteps seem loud now but not as loud as the beating of his heart. He shakes himself. He's being a wuss.

He finds the door but it's locked. He bangs on it. 'Hey, let me out, you dickheads,' he says. He know the others wouldn't have locked him in but he doesn't want to consider the alternative.

Someone says his name but it's coming from inside the room, not outside. He hits his forehead with the heel of his palm. He's imagining things. He's tired. He barely slept after everything that happened last night. Moments later there are footsteps outside and the doorknob rattles in Billy's hand.

He jumps back.

'Billy?' It's Steve.

'Let me out.' Billy isn't sure if he's talking to Steve or—

'It's locked,' Steve says through the door.

'I know it's locked, genius,' Billy says. Something is urging him to turn around. That hook in his stomach tug-tug-tugging again.

'Why did you lock yourself in?'

Billy's heart thuds harder and his teeth chatter. 'I didn't.'

'Then what—'

'Just get me out,' Billy says, palms flat against the door. He doesn't want to turn around. He sounds hysterical, and he knows it, but he doesn't care. 

'I can't. The door's locked.'

'Can't you pick it? Like you did with the trunk?'

There's a sound like Steve fiddling with the lock and then he's saying, 'It won't work,' with a panicked edge to his voice.

'Steve, what's happening,' another voice says. It's Wheeler.

'Billy's locked in and I can't get the door open. I don't know what happened.'

'Why did he lock the door?' Byers says.

'I didn't,' Billy repeats. 'It wasn't me. Why the fuck would I lock myself in? How would I lock myself in?'

'OK, just— Just calm down,' Steve says and Billy fights the urge to kick something.

A feeling comes over Billy as he listens to Steve talk with Wheeler and Byers, like maybe something wants to get him alone. Wants him separated from the others, from Steve. A stinging chill creeps down his spine.

'We're going to try to break it down,' Steve says. 'Move back.'

'OK,' Billy says, feeling dazed. He moves aside, his back toward the room, hands braced on the wall by the door. It feels wet but it's probably just because of how cold everything is.

Moments later he hears a thud and then, 'Fuck that hurt,' from Steve.

'It should've come down,' Byers says, 'the wood looks rotted.'

'Should we try again?' Wheeler says.

 _Billy_ , comes the whisper. _Billy, Billy, Billy._

'Shut up,' Billy says. He thumps his fist against the wall. 'Shut up!'

'Billy?' There's a pause and then, from the other side of the door, 'Billy, are you OK?'

'I'm fine,' Billy says. Turn around, he thinks. No. Don't turn around. 'Just get me out of here.'

'OK,' Steve says. 'Maybe there's an axe or something somewhere?'

'I'll go look for one,' Byers says and then Billy hears two sets of footsteps walk down the hall as Wheeler says she'll go with him.

'How very Jack Torrance,' Billy says, loud enough so Steve can hear him on the other side.

'Who?' Steve says.

'Don't tell me you haven't seen _The Shining_.'

'No,' Steve says, 'you know I don't like horror movies.'

'Jesus Christ,' Billy says. 'How are we even friends?'

Steve laughs. 'I ask myself that daily.'

Billy snorts. 'When we get back to Hawkins, I'm making you watch _The Shining_ ,' he says. Though after staying in this place, maybe he won't ever want to watch it again. But it's good to think about going back to Hawkins. Fuck. He never thought he'd miss that shitty town.

'OK,' Steve says. His voice is close like maybe he's pressed up against the door. Longing yawns open within Billy and he wishes he could see Steve. Touch him. Hold him.

'Billy I—' Steve starts. 'I want you to know that I...'

'That you what?'

Footsteps approach and Steve mutters, 'We're going to get you out of here,' and Billy hears Byers say, 'Stand back.' He waits for the sound of the axe splitting the door but, before anything can happen, there's a click and the door swings open.

Billy's flashlight turns back on, shooting a beam of light past Billy, into the alcove at the top of the stairs. Byers has an axe in his grip, poised to swing, Wheeler on one side, Steve on the other.

'What the fuck?' Steve says. He blinks once, twice, mouth hanging open.

Billy feels frozen, his heart pounding, but then Steve is grabbing for him, pulling him from the room. 

'Fuck, are you OK?'

'I'm fine,' Billy says.

'You're bleeding…'

'I'm not—' Billy starts, but then he looks at his hands. They're covered in blood. 'That's not my blood,' he says. His nostrils flare and the scent of iron hits him. How hadn't he smelt it before?

'Then where did it come from?' Wheeler asks. Her eyes are wide and her face is pale.

Billy shakes his head. Byers and Wheeler move around him, flashlights in hand. Steve stays with Billy, gripping his forearms.

'Are you sure you're OK?' Steve asks, voice full of concern.

It unsettles Billy. He pulls his arms from Steve's grasp. 'Peachy,' he says, not looking at Steve.

He hears a gasp from inside the room and turns around. He doesn't want to go back in but Byers is saying, 'You should see this,' and Steve is going inside and so Billy follows.

Across the wall, in three foot letters, the message, 'Help Billy come home', is written in blood that drips and oozes.

Steve hisses in a breath. 'Fuck.'

'Who did this?' Billy says. 'Who the fuck…this isn't funny.' He turns toward the others.

'We didn't do it,' Wheeler says. 'You were in here, not us.'

'You think I did this?'

'I didn't say that.'

Steve places a hand on his shoulder but Billy shakes him off. 'This isn't funny,' he repeats.

'We're not laughing, Billy,' Byers says. Billy hates the pity in his eyes.

'Come on,' Steve says, curling a hand around Billy's bicep. 'Come on,' he repeats, 'let's go wash your hands. It's OK.'

'No,' Billy says, pulling away from Steve again. 'It's not OK. It's not your name on the wall,' he says. 'Why the fuck...' he trails off. He kicks the wall.

Wheeler jumps and Byers steps back, holding Wheeler's arm.

Billy looks around but there's nothing in the room he can throw so he punches the wall again and again. His hand hurts but he doesn't care. 'What the fuck do you want from me?' he screams. He punches the wall again. 

Steve catches him around the waist while Billy screams. 'Billy, stop it,' Steve says, 'you're hurting yourself.' 

Billy wriggles but Steve's hold is strong and Billy is tired. 'Let me go,' he says. His throat is tight and something bucks in his chest.

'No,' Steve says. 'Let's get out of here. Let's go home.'

Billy sags. He turns in Steve's arms, getting blood on Steve's dark green sweater. 'In the morning,' he says. 'Just one more night.'

'How can you want to stay after this?'

'I have to,' Billy says. 'I want...I need to know—' He pushes away from Steve, sucking in a deep breath. 'I need to know.'

Steve worries his lip between his teeth. He glances at Wheeler and Byers who have been standing by silently, then back to Billy. He nods slowly. 'OK. One more night.'

__

It’s night again. At least Billy thinks it is. He hasn’t been outside since he went out with Steve, washing the blood from his hands in a creek that runs past the back of the house. It’s been hours since then, he’s sure. He’s tired anyway. Wants to sleep. But he sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for Steve, the oil lamp lighting their room.

Steve is talking in hushed tones with Wheeler and Byers in the hall just outside. Billy knows they're talking about him. About what had happened earlier, about how he wants to stay. He'd been talking with them—Wheeler and Byers wanted to go home, Steve wasn't sure what to do—but he stormed off when they wouldn't listen when he said he's fine. They can't make him leave.

Steve slips inside, closing and locking the door behind him, then crossing to stand at the end of the bed. 'Hey,' he says. The light catches in his eyes, highlights the bow of his mouth.

'Hi,' Billy says. 

Steve has a hand wrapped around the bedpost, looking down at Billy with concern. 'Are you OK?'

Billy rolls his eyes and looks away. 'I'm fine.'

The bed dips beside him and he feels Steve pressed close against his side. His hand is resting in the mattress by Billy's hip. He cups Billy's jaw with his hand and turns his face to him. 'Are you sure?'

Billy scowls and fights the urge to shirk Steve's touch. 'I'm sure,' he says, and fists his hands in Steve's shirt, kissing him fiercely, to show Steve just how fine he is.

Steve hums against his mouth, running his thumb along Billy's pulse. He pushes his fingers into Billy's hair, tugging gently, then pushes Billy down onto the bed. He kisses Billy hot and possessively, his hand drifting down to pull at Billy's hips, urging their bodies flush together.

Billy spreads his hands over the wings of Steve's shoulder blades. Tips his head back when Steve kisses his neck. He's forgotten all about ghosts and hauntings until he hears something from the foot of the bed. Someone whispering his name over and over.

He stills, blood running cold, and pushes at Steve.

'What is it?' Steve asks.

'I thought I heard…' Billy trails off, looking in the direction the sound had come from. There's nothing there.

Steve turns Billy's face toward him, fingers tense on his jaw. 'Look at me,' he says and kisses Billy. 'Stay with me.'

'OK,' Billy says and lets Steve kiss him, lets Steve press him back down into the mattress, an overwhelming heat surging through him. Lets Steve touch him, as he touches Steve. Steve's cock is hot and hard against his, his body warm and solid under Billy's hands, his mouth sweet on his. All he can hear now is their breathing, the slick slide of their mouths, and Steve saying his name.

__

This time, when Billy hears his name whispered in the dark, he knows it's not Steve. Doesn't have to look to know Steve is sleeping soundly beside him. That hook is tugging at his stomach again, pulling harder with each murmur of his name. So he swings his legs over the side of the bed—hoping he won't wake Steve—and stands.

He doesn't take his flashlight, just follows the singsong voice through the dark. The floorboards don't creak as usual, and Billy knows why now: the house knows him, so why would it make noise?

The whispers echo down the hall, saying _Come here, Billy, come home,_ and so he follows. He trails his fingers along the walls, but he doesn't need touch to guide him either. He knows his way.

Why was he upset about the blood? Why did he want to leave? He doesn't remember. 

The voice leads him to the attic, like he knew it would. Moonlight shines through the open window and Billy walks toward it, feeling completely at peace. Like he belongs.

'Billy, what are you doing?'

Billy blinks. He's out on the roof. He jerks back, turns around and sees Steve leaning out of the attic window. His eyes are wide in the moonlight and his face is pale.

'I don't know,' Billy says. A harsh sound, something animal, is coming from his lungs. 'How did I get up here?'

'You were gone when I woke up,' Steve says, gripping the window ledge, knuckles white. 'Don't you remember?'

'No,' Billy says. A wind whistles past and he shivers. He steps back, wanting to get to Steve, but his foot slips and for one awful moment he thinks this is it, I'm not going home. But he manages to steady himself, one hand braced on the sloping tiles.

'Billy!' Steve's arm is stretched out, like he was grabbing for Billy when he slipped, like he could save him. 'Don't move. I'll come to you.' Steve crawls out of the window, edging closer. 

Billy looks down. It's not the first time he's climbed up on a roof but the drop is dizzying. He turns to Steve when he reaches his side and clutches his hand. They move slowly back to the window together—Billy peering over the edge of the roof, head thick and woolly—and clamber inside.

'Fuck, I thought—' Steve shakes his head. He's breathless, stroking his hand over Billy's face. He kisses him, chaste and brief, and says, 'Let's go home.'

Billy nods and swallows thickly. 'Yeah, OK,' he says, but something is telling him to stay.

__

It's so cold. Billy has never felt this cold in his life. He can't even feel the warmth of Steve's hand, curled around his.

'Come on,' Steve says, pulling on Billy's hand, 'we have to get out of here.'

The doors and windows rattle. A bitter wind whistles past, seems to bring the whisper, 'Stay,' along with it. Billy shivers. He feels lightheaded.

A beam of light swings over to where Billy and Steve stand, holding hands in the entrance hall. 'Are you coming?' It's Wheeler. She has a flashlight and she's by the opened front door, holding hands with Byers. 

Billy rubs at his face. He doesn't remember how they got there. He doesn't remember how he got down here. Wasn't he in the attic?

'Come on,' Steve repeats, 'let's go.'

'I can't,' Billy says. The front door slams shut.

'Billy,' Steve pleads, squeezing his hand. 

'What do you mean?' Byers asks.

Billy turns to Byers and Wheeler. He can't look at Steve. 'The house wants me to stay,' he says.

Wheeler and Byers exchange a concerned look. Billy knows it sounds crazy but it's true. The house belongs to him. Or maybe he belongs to the house. 

'I'm not letting you stay,' Steve says, as Billy slips his hand from Steve's grasp.

Part of Billy knows he should be moving toward the door, he should be leaving with Steve, because he wants to. Doesn't he? He rubs a hand over his face. 'I don't think you have a choice,' he says, feeling caught between two worlds.

Steve presses his lips together and looks toward the front door again. 'I'm sorry, Billy,' he says. 

'Sorry for what?' Billy asks. But Steve doesn't answer. Just curls his fist and clocks Billy across the jaw. That's a mean right hook, Billy thinks, before everything goes black.

__

Someone is calling his name. Soft but insistent. Not again, Billy thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut tighter, tries to raise his hands to cover his ears but his limbs feel like lead. 'Fuck off,' he murmurs, voice hoarse.

Something shifts beneath his head and he groans. The taste of blood is thick in the back of his throat. He thinks he might puke. 

'Glad I didn't knock that charm out of you,' a voice says.

Billy opens his eyes. His vision swims but he blinks and Steve slowly comes into focus, leaning over him, dark eyes wide with concern.

'Steve?'

Steve sighs. 'Yeah, it's me.'

Billy pushes himself up, so he's sitting. He's in the backseat of the BMW, the ghostly birch trees that line the drive blurring past the window. 'What happened?' He's got one hand planted on Steve's thigh, the other cradling his head.

'Steve knocked you out,' Wheeler says, turning around to look at Billy from the front seat.

Billy works his jaw. 'Thanks,' he says, drily, but he means it.

Steve places his hand over Billy's. 'Any time.'

The car hits a bump in the drive; Billy swallows against the heaving in his stomach. Steve reaches over with his free hand, trails his fingers along Billy's jaw. 

'Are you OK?' Steve asks. Billy thinks he means about more than just the bruise.

'Yeah,' Billy says, though he's not sure he is. He runs a hand over his face. 'Fuck, was any of that real?' He feels like he's woken from a fever dream.

'I don't know,' Wheeler says, with a small frown.

Steve squeezes Billy's hand. 'Some of it was.' He smiles, small and fond.

Any other time, Billy would scoff at his sentimentality. But, right now, with a probable concussion and a freaky house after his ass, he just smiles back. Goofy and way too revealing.

'Uh, I hate to interrupt,' Byers says, 'but we've got a problem.'

'What's wrong?' Wheeler asks.

Byers lifts his hands off the wheel. 'I'm not driving.'

Billy jerks forward, and immediately regrets it. His stomach turns and his brain feels thick. He takes deep, steadying breaths, resting his head on the back of the front seat. 'It's the house.'

'What?'

'I told you it didn't want me to leave.'

'Well, tough shit,' Steve says, squeezing Billy's hand tight, 'it can't have you.'

Billy isn't sure if there's a 'because you're mine' implied there but it's true, either way.

'I don't think we have any say in the matter,' Byers says. He's holding hands with Wheeler, now, their faces pale in the moonlight shining through the windshield.

The car speeds up, engine revving. Billy looks at Steve. His eyes are wide and he looks terrified. He's beautiful. Billy leans over and kisses him, hard but too brief, and then he turns around, reaching for the door handle.

Steve catches him, though, Billy's reflexes dulled by the concussion. 'What are you doing?'

'Maybe if I get out, if I go back to the house, it'll let you leave.' Billy doesn't want to go back, but he thinks it might be the only way some of them get out alive. 

'No way,' Steve says, 'we're not leaving you.' He looks over to Wheeler and Byers but Billy can't look anywhere but Steve.

'You have to let me go,' Billy says.

Steve holds on tighter. 'No.' 

'Let me go, Harrington.' Billy's heart feels like it's stuck in his throat. He looks out the front of the car, sees the huge oak tree at the foot of the drive getting closer and closer as they head straight for it. He wriggles in Steve's hold.

'Let me fucking go!' he screams. He doesn't want Steve to let him go. He'd thought, for so long, there was nothing for him in Hawkins. No home for him anywhere. But he was wrong and he found out too fucking late.

As he screams Steve finally lets him go. But it's only because the car has lurched to a stop. The engine cut dead, barely a yard from the tree.

'What—' Wheeler says. 'What just happened?' She's looking around at everyone, Byers and Steve shaking their heads at her.

'I don't know,' Billy says but he thinks he does. Billy had been screaming at Steve to let him go, but he was thinking about the house. And it heard him.

'Billy,' Steve says, voice like shattered glass.

Billy's stomach turns. He fumbles for the door handle and stumbles out of the car. He braces himself against the tree and retches but his stomach is empty so nothing comes out. 

A hand lands on his back, rubbing in circles. 'Billy, are you OK?'

Billy straightens up and turns, leaning back against the tree. He sucks in lungfuls of cold air. 'Just peachy, sweetheart.' With a trembling hand, Billy digs a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, shakes one loose and manages to light it.

Steve reaches for the pack and Billy hands it over. 

The car doors open and close and Wheeler and Byers join them. 'Does anyone else not want to drive home?' Wheeler asks. She's curled into Byers, eyebrows drawn together.

'I'm happy to walk,' Byers says. 

'The fresh air will do us good,' Steve says. He still looks shaken, face ashen and hand trembling, as he draws on his cigarette. 

A breeze blows past, rustling the leaves. Billy isn't certain but he almost thinks he hears his name carried along with it. He shudders. 'We'd better start, then,' he says and pushes off the tree. He walks around the car and back onto the drive, heading for the gate.

Steve catches up with him, reaching for Billy's hand. Billy takes it, threads their fingers together, and they walk down the drive hand in hand.

He can hear Wheeler and Byers following behind them and in the distance the mournful call of the house.

'I'll be glad to get home,' Steve says, squeezing Billy's hand.

There's an itch in the back of Billy's mind, urging him to turn around and look back when Steve says 'home'. He doesn't though. Just keeps walking forward, holding Steve's hand tight, and says, 'Yeah. Me too.'

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of bit off more than I could chew with this one but...it's done now! Happy Halloween, friends! And thanks for reading :)
> 
> As always, please feel free to come find me on tumblr [@gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> I've got [a moodboard for the fic here](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/179533649820/journeys-end-aka-the-one-with-the-haunted) and, as I said in my notes at the top, I listened to [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/andibgoode/playlist/4chB4OMTth2JdfpCKmhe9O?si=0Fz2PhQ2Tu6GJgGhSoEpkA) while writing.
> 
> The title is from 'Journeys end in lovers meeting' from The Twelfth Night which is a line Eleanor repeats throughout the book. It's not very spooky, as far as titles go, but it felt fitting.


End file.
